Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: All thoughts and ideas in my head belong to Tolkien.
Author's Note: I've noticed since writing my poetic saga 'The Tale of Grief' that I've developed a habit of ambiguously referring to characters via translations of their names. I did it at every turn in the poem, and here one character becomes completely abstracted, the poor dear. Oh, and this is the first time I've written these characters properly - if you can call this proper.
The tender caresses touched skin as cold and unfeeling as marble. Encased in silvered branches she lay, the bark smooth and soft. Once those caresses had been enough. She could lose herself within her love and they would be as one. Aratar had taken that comfort from her. The golden curtain fell and another light overpowered her: the gleam of ice upon her hand. Though her beloved whispered of his love for her, she lay by him in solitude, floating upon silent waters, the murmur of waves her only companion.
To bear a ring of power is to be alone.